Rewind
by Merry Sioux
Summary: A girl dies and is reborn in a time she's only known in books. New people, new culture, new language, old technology. But she adapts, she learns, she finds a new home. And later she discovers that this world is not only something out of a history book, but something out of fiction as well. And she's the main character, destined to have a heroic death.


_AN: This is a rewrite of my old fic (same title), and if you're seeing this then it's gone now. But you have this instead! The main plot is still the same but many of the scenes are different, I removed and added some stuff._

 _There's death and blood in a few scenes, nothing too graphic imo. But just a heads up._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

She's bleeding.

Not the kind that happens when you hit something too hard and the skin tears, not the kind that happens when you're cut and it stings once you dab it with alcohol, not the kind that happens once a month that makes you curled up on your bed the whole day.

She's bleeding everywhere. From the cuts and scratches all over her body, to the gut wrenching pain she feels on her abdomen. She sees blood pooling around her, staining the gray concrete with red.

The more red she sees, the more black spreads in her vision.

She wants to cry, wants to shout, or even utter a soft whimper. But everything hurts and her body feels wrong, twisted and battered too much to function properly.

All it took was one hit.

The black has surrounded everything, and she sees nothing. She feels the heat from the road, feels the pain everywhere. She can taste wet copper and dry asphalt, she can smell faint gasoline and strong alcohol. She can hear someone swearing, the words slow, loud, and unintelligible.

She hears the sound of glass shattering and her world ends with the overwhelming scent of alcohol.

What a way to start her first day of being sixteen.

(and what a way to end it too)

* * *

The world rewinds.

She's a few seconds old, or perhaps sixteen years old, and she feels wet. The familiar smell of blood lingers in her weak nose, and her body feels sluggish, fuzzy, and sticky. She is not lying on a hot rough concrete, she does not smell the stench of alcohol, and she does not feel any pain. It is a welcoming reprieve.

Despite that, she can't help but cry. Not a soft whimper, but a loud high-pitched wail. One that surprises her, as nothing right now should be a cause of distress. She should be relieved.

Her spirit asks herself to stop, but it doesn't. The mind is too young, the body is too tiny, and all the emotions she was feeling is too much. Happiness, relief, and confusion. So she cries, screaming until she feels her throat going hoarse and her lungs getting tired.

She's terrified, what was happening to her?

Then she feels someone touching her, someone holding her. Hands big enough to cup her head and arms thick enough to cradle her body, and she's now terrified and confused. What kind of person would be big enough to manage that?

(it takes her seconds to realize that it is she who has shrunk)

That someone begins to utter something, voice low and smooth like caramel. She doesn't understand the words, but it calms her regardless.

The voice begins to sing.

She doesn't understand the words, none of it sounds familiar, but the tune is calming and the voice is melodic. So she quiets down, her lungs having much needed rest, and begins to listen.

It's a pretty song, and it suits the pretty voice.

Her new world starts like that, with a song she doesn't understand but loves all the same. But as one saying goes, all good things come to an end. And the song ends sooner than she would like.

For every sung word, the voice becomes softer. For every breath this person exhales, their hold on her becomes weaker.

When it comes to the point that the arms tremble, the song pauses, and she is suddenly showered with soft kisses. A peck on her forehead, on her two cheeks, on her head, and then back to her face again. She is peppered with tiny desperate kisses.

She feels something wet hit her face several times, like warm raindrops.

Then she is lifted higher and someone else takes her. She squirms, feeling the urge to cry coming back, uncomfortable with this foreign being. She begins to whimper until the song resumes. Softer than before, but still lovely.

The one holding her murmurs something, their voice lower and rougher than the singing voice.

Softer and softer.

The arms are firmer, the hands are warmer, and they do not smell wet and bloody. They smell faintly of the scented incense she sometimes found in her grandparents' house.

Softer and softer.

The arms are trembling.

Softer.

She can barely hear the song.

And softer.

She hears a word.

(it is her new name)

Silence.

The trembling turns to shaking, and she feels another one of those warm raindrops again.

It takes her a second to realize that those are tears, it takes her another to realize that whoever was holding her was crying.

It takes her less than a second to join them too.

* * *

Reincarnation is something that should have been only in fiction, she thinks. Something only in books, TV, and her favorite fanfiction.

Yet here she was, in her short chubby glory, inching towards her new father with intense determination.

It was worth noting that she barely remembered anything during her time as a baby. Be it because it was natural for babies to forget, or she ruthlessly squashed the memories of being breastfed, being unable to control her bowel movements or bladder, and crawling around like an inchworm. Or a combination of both, she doesn't know.

She was a happy baby when it was time to be weaned off the boob, and would be a happier toddler when she could finally master potty training and not have her nursemaid constantly change and wash her soiled nappies. The lady deserved better.

But that was a bridge she would cross later, it was a work in progress. She was proud to say that she wasn't an absolute weapon of mass vomit, piss, poop, and tears anymore. Just slightly.

Right now, she was passing one more milestone to independence.

Walking without her father's hand.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

It took her a while to accept the fact that her old life was gone.

Four steps.

And a longer time to accept the fact that any semblance of her old life was non-existent in her new home. Gone were the sleek, modern, and cool tones of the urban city she had grown up in. Gone was the humid and wet climate she was used to. Gone was the murmurs of strangers in a familiar language, gone were the many familiar faces and clothes.

Five steps.

In its place was a large home filled with warm vibrant colors. Red, gold, brown, teal, violet, and any color that reminded her of the sky and earth combined was painted over walls and columns of soft cream and light brown.

Six steps.

In its place, the climate was dry and hot when the sun was up, and dry and cold when it sets.

Seven steps.

In its place was a tongue she was struggling to speak and learn, with clothes she was still deemed too bright for her tastes.

Eight steps.

A beautiful but alien world to her, one she was still getting used to thinking as home.

(but that was her problem, not his)

Nine steps.

He trips and falls, it hurts. He feels tears threatening to fall out, he holds it in. He sniffles as he shakily tries to get up. He sees his father crouching lower, leaning forward, his face conflicted between obviously wanting to carry him or to let him try and walk again.

He sees the few grays in his father's hair, sees the darker bags under his eyes, and sees the additional lines above his forehead and near his eyes.

(get up)

He gets up, he wants to do this himself.

One shaky step.

He wants to go to the person who feels like home.

Another shaky step.

She pauses a bit, hadn't she been wondering how unlike home this place was?

(but that was her problem, not his)

His father is kneeling now, arms outstretched, and he forgets what he was thinking to focus on his current task.

Three more steps.

He concentrates on the large golden pendant his father always wears. Its gaudy golden eye gleaming obnoxiously against the sunlight. It was a pretty thing, he supposes, with its pyramid shape and eye.

Two more steps.

It looks familiar though, she thinks.

(but that was her problem, not hi-)

One step.

(no it wasn't)

She (he?) remembers why it's familiar.

(do you remember your favorite show?)

She does.

She cries, he cries.

His father thinks it's from the fall, and tries to comfort him.

It's not, but he appreciates the effort.

* * *

He is four years old, or perhaps she is nineteen years old, and he's aware that something is off about him.

Yes, granted, being reincarnated to what seems to be Ancient holy-crap-what Egypt would make anything he feels a little bit off. But this is different, he thinks.

When he feels finally feels at home, he feels claws sinking in his skin and suddenly something reminds him harshly that she shouldn't feel at home.

(but that was her problem, not his)

When he sees his father and priests and thinks of them as family, invisible hands wrap around his neck and shake him frantically that this wasn't her family.

(but that was her problem, not his)

When he looks at his reflection, be it in water or a polished disk of metal, and feels happy about himself. He sees a dark shadow behind him that stares listlessly, reminding him that his skin is different from hers, his hair is different from hers, and the parts showing in his reflection are different from hers. That he is not a she, and he should feel wrong.

(but... that was her problem, not his)

He twiddles with the beads on his bracelet.

This persistent feeling, where one moment he feels like himself and then next something drags him back to make him want to scratch his skin off, is not right. He's never had that feeling in his past life, he shouldn't have this now.

Should he?

He looks back at his reflection and winces, the silent screeches ringing in his ears.

He doesn't think he should.

* * *

He looks for his father, who is fortunately not busy and is having a break in the gardens. Beside him is his two high priests, the wielders of the Eye and Ring. They're discussing something.

He trots towards them, reaching out for his father's plate until someone gently swats his hand away.

"You've had enough sweets for today," his father says, bringing the plate up as his son reaches out and makes grabby gestures. "Any more and you won't be able to sleep later."

He pauses, weighing what was better: sweets or sleep. "...'Kay," he says, pouting.

"Most children would be against naps," Mahu, the Ring bearer, comments.

"I like naps," he replies with no shame. There will be a point in his life that sleep will be more of a luxury than a necessity, he's aware of that, and he will take advantage of his kid status as much as he could to sleep whenever he liked.

Naps are absolutely underappreciated when you were a kid.

He tilts his head, trying to find the right words to describe his predicament. Eloquent as he was for his age, a four year old didn't really have the vocabulary or flowery prose to describe things in detail. "Papa, I think I'm haunted."

His father pauses mid-bite, mentally deciphering what that meant in adult-speak.

He uses that opportunity to nab a honey ball and pops it in his mouth.

* * *

The perks of having a family of magical priests, he muses. Is that saying you might be haunted and having your father correctly guess that you meant you might have a spirit possessing you is considered a legitimate concern.

As he's sitting awkwardly on the floor, surrounded by intricate symbols drawn by Mahu, he wonders if he should be worried. He's never seen magic, and he's torn between being hopeful and scared that it was real. And he's not going to lie, the high priests of his father were very intimidating to look at right now. Looming down at him with serious faces.

"Little sun," his father says, kneeling in front of him. "Do you know what's happening now?"

He thinks it might be an exorcism, and tells him the closest words he knows to describe it.

His father looks pained, a few of his priests cough, and Mahu outright cackles—laughing so hard he steps out of his magic circle.

"It's not— _no_ , we are not sealing your ka," his father says. "Where did you learn that?"

"I live here," he points out. "And I have ears."

"Well, you'll be happy to know it's not a ka sealing."

"Very similar though," Mahu pipes up.

"Mahu."

"Just giving an idea to the prince on what this will be!"

"I'm capable of explaining it to my son, thank you," his father sighs, pulling something out of his robes. He shows one item to him. "This is your soul."

He blinks.

Now it's Akhenaden's turn to look pained, Mahu laughs harder.

"It's a marshmallow," he says, poking at the soft nutty square. "Can I have it?"

"No, you've had enough sweets," was his father's immediate reply, bringing the marshmallow up. "This is not a marshmallow, it's a soul."

Akhenaden looks faintly constipated, the other priests twitch their lips, trying to keep their stoic expressions. If only people could see the god-king of Egypt now, using candy as a metaphor for the soul. "'Kay."

"When a person dies, parts of it goes to the afterlife," his father pinches the sweet into two and pops one half in his mouth. "The other stays." He shows the remaining half as emphasis.

This was a very weird metaphor.

"When a person is born, parts of their new soul is already made," he shows another marshmallow on his other hand. "That doesn't change when a person is reborn," he looks at him squarely, bringing the two marshmallows together. "Which, I suspect, happened to you."

This was slowly making sense, but it was still a weird metaphor. "So I have a dead marshmallow and a new marshmallow?"

A beat of silence.

Mahu, at this point, has died from suffocating in his own laughter. His father pointedly ignores this tragedy. "Yes, and right now those marshmallows are fighting."

"'Kay," he nods, understanding. "And I don't wanna eat them?" Just to elaborate of course.

"No, you want them together," his father mushes the two to form a misshapen block. "Like so." He looks at him and sighs. "You'll have a snack after this, my impatient sun, just wait."

"'Kay, papa," he says. "How do I start?"

"Hold my wrist," his father orders, and he does so. "Can you feel my pulse?" A nod. "Good, I want you to focus on that, now close your eyes." He closes them. "And breathe slowly, listen to my voice." He frowns, concentrating. "That's good, you're doing good, my little sun… in… out… in… out…"

He hears someone walk closer, hears the soft clink of metal, hears the quiet plea of his father to be gentle.

"If you feel scared, if it's too much, squeeze my wrist tight and we'll stop," his father whispers.

Something cold touches his forehead, and he hears the click of a lock and the creak of a door opening.

And then darkness.

* * *

He hears a woman's voice singing a lullaby.

"It's a pretty song."

He knows.

"I'm sorry for hurting you," she says. "I was scared, I didn't want to disappear."

He suspects that was the case.

"I should go."

The lullaby is louder.

"Where?" He asks.

"Away, somewhere," she shrugs. "Where do souls go when they die?"

He doesn't know. "Papa said we're parts of each other," he says, confused. "That we should combine."

He hears a familiar voice calling.

She shakes her head. "You're already the whole marshmallow, one mushed together," she says. "If you weren't, you'd never have my memories, wouldn't you?"

"Memories?"

"Do you remember your favorite show?"

There are three syllables in the tip of his tongue, but he's hesitant to let them out. If he admits it, if he shows proof that it existed, then maybe it was real. Maybe it could happen; to him, to his family, to his new life. She looks at him with sadness and understanding and doesn't press further.

The calling is louder.

"My story ended, yours is just beginning," she murmurs, looking up. She clasps her hands behind her back and twirls around. "I think that's all I needed to know to move on," she closes her eyes. "I miss nana."

He feels a pang in his heart, he misses her too. He misses his old family, his old friends. He shakes his head and wipes his face, that was her problem, not his. They weren't his.

"It's okay to mourn, they were yours too," she murmurs. "They were ours, and we lost them too soon."

"They were yours, they were hers," he denies. "I'm not her."

"You were once, you're two marshmallows squished together, remember?" She says. "A part of you is her, and a part of you is him—and that's natural."

There are times he feels like he doesn't deserve being him.

She knows.

"A part of you is him," she insists. "The one you know—the one we know, is fictional. You're here, you're real, and your story is just beginning," she gives the boy a hug. "Live, okay? For her? For me? For you?"

He's silent.

"For your papa?" She adds. "For nana? Please?"

He twitches. "… 'Kay."

She nods. "Don't worry about them knowing the—you know, show and stuff," she gestures at him. "They can't see unless they know about it, I made sure."

He blinks. "Like in Harry Potter? With the houses?"

"That's where I got the idea!" she laughs. "I have to go now," she says, turning and walking towards something. Something he couldn't see.

"Bye," he says, and she waves back.

His father is calling him.

* * *

He wakes up and feels lighter, the presence is gone.

His father is hovering over him, frantic and worried. He gets up, pats himself, and says he feels better now. He is hugged tightly, and no words are said. He doesn't know what the priests saw, he doesn't know what he looked like when they were doing whatever.

(they expected an adult, bitter and in denial, clinging to any vestige of their existence)

"Are you sure you're alright?" His father asks softly, combing his spikes with his fingers.

(they didn't expect the manifestation of a young girl, scared and confused)

"Yes," he replies, voice muffled in his father's robes. "She's gone, I think."

(bloody and battered, looking at them with wide childlike eyes)

"Good, that's," his father closes his eyes. "Very good, I'm glad."

(her death must have been painful, she had been crying out a name, her tone too much like his son's cry for him when he was scared)

* * *

He is six years old when he meets Mana.

She is three years younger than him and is very tiny and adorable. He's in awe with the large green eyes staring back at him. He's torn between poking her chubby cheeks or patting her soft-looking fluffy hair.

He goes with patting her hair. She giggles, and he finds it's a lot like tiny little bells.

He asks his father, in a serious voice, if he could keep her. Naturally he says no, but he tells him that she'll be living in the palace for now on. Her father has moved in, serving as a scribe. And since Meryet, one of his high priests, was her aunt—it made it easier for her to visit her niece.

He doesn't listen much to his father's explanation.

They start playing games, first were the ones they knew, then games they invented themselves (like hiding in pots and surprising unsuspecting servants), and then games he played in his past life. Her games.

It starts with that, the idea of sharing bits of herself to others. It starts with games, then with stories, and then with songs. Songs he took for granted, no matter how silly it sounded.

He sings a lot, after that.

* * *

He is seven and Mana is four when they meet Mahad, the son of Mahu. He wonders if his father is doing this on purpose, Mana the niece of his high priest and Mahad the son of another high priest. He wonders if he had planned for these two to be his priests in the future, wonders if he brought them here so they could all bond and mingle in advance.

It was likely.

Mahad is polite and respectful, always careful around him.

He tilts his head, thinking of ways to stop that. It must be an act, it has to be. He's Mahu's son, being too serious and too lawful is impossible if you have him as a parent.

He looks at Mana, she looks back. She grins, he grins.

They pull the magician-in-training outside to play.

* * *

He sings a lot more now, in the privacy of his room or when there's nobody but him in the garden. And a few people he's not shy around. Sometimes his father arrives, sometimes Mana is asleep by his side, and most of the time it's Mahad next to him—reading a scroll.

He never runs out of songs, he has two lifetimes worth of it.

* * *

He notices Mahad's kind smile, his quiet wit, his patience in dealing with their antics.

He notices how much he pours into books and scrolls about different topics of magic, how much enthusiasm he has in it. He notices the fire in his eyes when he talks about what he learns, the pride he has when he casts spells, the determination he has in becoming the top in the academy. In making himself and his father proud.

He notices the fondness he has when helping Mana in her studies, the exasperation and amusement in her energy, the approval in her curiosity and imagination.

He notices the sincere look of happiness Mahad gets when he's there and his heart feels like its stumbling, missing a beat and clumsily getting back up.

He also stumbles in real life.

He's eight years old and this is ridiculous.

* * *

Mahad is bitten by a snake and everyone panics. Mana is crying, Mahad is clutching his arm in pain, and he's about to call for help-

( _"Do you remember your favorite show?"_ )

Wait, what was he thinking? He had no time for that. He pulls Mahad's arm close to his face and presses his mouth against the bite, and begins to suck the poison.

Mahad protests, trying to pull his arm back, saying that one of his status shouldn't be doing this.

He gets annoyed and slaps the arm as an order to stop. He looks up and frowns. "Death isn't fun to experience," he states frankly. "I'm not going to risk you dying for something as superficial as that." He goes back to sucking.

"Super-!"

He holds up a hand, and Mahad quiets.

Later, when he's sure that the poison is out, all three of them sit under the tree. He calls a servant to find a healer to check on Mahad, so they all wait. Mana is less hysterical now, just sniffling occasionally and clinging to Mahad's arm.

"It's the same," he says. "The taste, the smell, the color."

"Hm?"

"Of our blood," he elaborates, and he should know, she had died in a pool of it. "It's the same." He closes his eyes. "When we're born, it's also the same. We're naked, we're crying, we're wet and sticky." He opens his eyes. "Statuses… being above someone? Being beneath someone? It's a stupid concept, we all start the same, we all end the same."

( _"Do you remember your favorite show?"_ )

"Yu-Gi-Oh," he murmurs, looking down at his hands. This scene, he knows it played out a little differently. His timing was different, his words were different, but the key points were still the same. "It's getting close, isn't it?"

"My prince?"

Shouldn't he be planning? He should have made plans years ago, when he was aware of where he was, of who he was. Instead, what has he done? Studied obviously, a lot more than kids his age has. The perks of having additional years of knowledge and experience in schooling had made it easier for him to learn the second time around. It helps that knowledge from this time was so rare in her life, and it motivated him to learn more. The languages, the history, the science, the _magic_. Everything he learned was way cooler than what she learned.

Except maybe manners and stuff, that was still boring.

But other than that, he hasn't done anything. No plans, no schemes, no goals on what to do with what he knew.

He should start.

"I want a world where everyone is happy and safe," and alive. "Where status doesn't matter," he thinks of Kul-Elna. "I want my—this kingdom peaceful forever." Or live long enough to see it.

He looks at Mahad, sees the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and he gives a wry smile. "A boy can dream."

A warm gust of wind blow and he idly wonders if he can make a wind chime. One carved with wood. Bamboo isn't something they get, but maybe he could improvise. It would be nice to have one in the garden. He mentally puts that in his list of projects to do.

"Dreams can come true with enough work and determination," Mahad says after a while. "Isn't that what your stories talk about?"

Stories, right. The TV shows and movies and comics and books and everything he once had, the ones he tells Mana so she can sleep. The ones he knows Mahad listens to as well. "It also needs luck." A lot of it.

Mahad hums, tilting his head. "I suppose magic will have to be enough."

He laughs.

* * *

He is ten years old when he finds a hooded figure sneaking into one of the temples. Any sensible man would call for the guards to look into it. But he is neither a man nor sensible.

So he follows.

They venture deep into the temple, going to the room allowed only for priests. He hides behind a pillar, peering out curiously as the cloaked stranger brings out a sack and begins to put the offerings inside.

A thief, he tilts his head. One who has seen better days, if the bony wrist that he saw was any indication.

This was a criminal act, right? A serious one considering the stranger was stealing inside a temple. But he'd be blind to not notice that the stranger was only touching the food, not even sparing a glance at the precious stones or metal.

The stranger stiffens, turning sharply towards the entrance and snarling. He wonders if he's been caught, but then hears footsteps behind him. Getting louder and louder as seconds passed.

The priests have arrived, and there was no way to escape for the thief, not when he wanted to keep their loot.

He bites his lip, the stranger could genuinely be a bad person. Being wary of strangers was something he was taught in both lives. But…

He looks at the food, then at the thin wrists, and then at the trembling he notices now.

"Justice is in the name of the gods," he repeats, clenching his fists. It feels wrong to be punished for being hungry and desperate, especially since even he knows how hard it must be to have a stable source of food in this era. He rushes towards the thief and takes his sack. "Get only a handful and get in one of the pots!" The thief is too surprised to react, and he uses the time to quickly dump some of the items back in the altar. He has an idea, and he hopes it will work.

The thief shakes their head. "The hell? Why should I-?"

"Look," he hisses, pulling the larger boy (and he was a boy, given the voice and his body). "Either in the pot or in the dungeon, which is better?"

The thief wisely chooses the pot.

"You know, this wouldn't happen if you weren't so bad at sneaking in," he tells the pot, he gets a snarl for his efforts. Rude. "You suck in the thieving thing."

He messes the items a bit, making it look like it was rummaged. He gets a bit of the meat and crams it in his mouth, making sure to smear as much juice and sauce as possible. He then jumps into another pot, his fingers staining the rim.

He waits, the thief waits.

A hand shoots into the pot he's in and he's harshly pulled out.

"Bra—" the irate priest coughs. "Prince."

"Tha' me, 'lo," he greets, mouth full of chewed meat. Some of it spatters on the man's top. "Wan' some?" He offers a bit of non-chewed meat.

"Please tell me the other bra—," he gives the priest a stink eye. "Your friend is not in a pot too."

"Maha's no' here."

"I didn't mean the sensible one."

Rude. "Mana's no' here choo," he says truthfully.

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Really, she's wid Mery," he insists, remembering the aunt and niece pair walking towards bathing rooms.

The priest just sighs, his companions pat his back in sympathy.

"Really so'wee," he offers. "I can clean?"

"You will go to your father and explain yourself, and we'll all make sure you do," the priest says sweetly. "Perhaps you'll have second thoughts in your mischief next time."

He droops, he had hoped it was one of those priests who was okay in leaving this kind of thing alone.

Oh, well, he's sure his father will understand once he explains it in private. He won't be having sweets any time soon though.

* * *

He is twelve when he meets Set, and they get along splendidly. In the form of constantly challenging each other in games, and polite trash talking (because his father would make him swallow nasty herb syrup if he sounded too mean and Set would shrivel up and die if he insulted the prince directly). Their friendship is unique, okay.

He didn't mean to, he just wanted Set to stop being so overly respectful with him. So he thought doing what he did with Mahad would work. Which was playing games.

As it turns out, Set doesn't like losing. Prince or not.

The feeling was surprisingly mutual, and so their daily challenges became a thing. It was fun, and he suspects some of the servants bet on them.

There was one thing he was confused about.

"Why doesn't Set like you?" He asks Mahad one day. "I mean, most of the time he doesn't like anyone, but he always looks like your existence insults him."

Mahad, who is already a high priest (and doesn't that fill him with both happiness and fear), looks at him questioningly. His face the face of pure and genuine confusion.

He doesn't buy it, this was someone related to Mahu after all. "Are you goading him in some way?" He asks, he sees the twitch in Mahad's fingers. "Oh, gods, you are!" He points at his friend's tell accusingly.

"Of course not," Mahad huffs. "That's far too much effort, and we're both mature adults." They were teens, is something he wants to point out. "It is not my fault that there are things that I do that annoys him."

"So you are goading him in some way."

"I'm not going to adjust a perfectly healthy and fun part of my lifestyle to appease his sour personality," Mahad replies calmly.

" _So he can go fuck himself, is what you're saying,"_ he says in English.

"Language."

"Nobody besides you and Mana know what I'm talking about!" He laughs, remembering how eager (and demanding) they were about learning when they found his journal. "What part doesn't he like? Is it because you like onions?"

"No," Mahad considers this. "Partly," he amends.

"You really shouldn't eat a lot of them, considering you're a high priest," he says. He doubts the vegetable is potent enough to make someone horny, and Mahad has very high self-control either way. But it would get people off his back. "So what doesn't he like?"

Mahad gives him a look, smiles, and pinches his cheek. _"Precious."_ He coos loudly.

"Now you're being condescending," he huffs, slapping the hand away. It was always fascinating to see the differences between how Mahad speaks in English. He was less polite, more cheeky, more blunt.

He turns to see a glimpse of Set marching away, fuming about something. He turns back to give Mahad a pointed stare. "You were goading, what did you do?"

"Like I said, nothing," Mahad replies, going back to his book. "I've always been unconventional as a priest, as was my father. What might seem insolent to most is normal for us," he shrugs. "Set will figure that out soon."

He blinks. That was true, Mahu had always been loud and brash in front of his father, never the one to mince words. He didn't realize a lot of people didn't like that though. His father never complained about it, he practically encouraged it. Or was resigned to it, probably both.

Set must never have met Mahu, because Mahad was tame in comparison.

* * *

He is thirteen years old when his father dies.

He stays in his room, curled up on his bed, and cries. Nobody comes in, he's ordered them not to.

Predictably, it means his two friends ignore that command altogether.

Mahad envelopes him in a hug and Mana squeezes in. He doesn't protest, doesn't complain, he just hiccups and sobs some more.

He'll be king, he knows that. It's one step closer to following the show, he knows that.

Mahad combs through his spikes.

A lot of people might die in the future, he knows that very well.

He doesn't want that.

He doesn't want people to die.

He doesn't want to die.

He doesn't know what to do.

He wished his father was here, why did he never tell him?

(how would he have explained knowing a story as fantastical as that?)

* * *

He loves reading, it's something he got from his previous life. He loves the flow of words and the buzz in his head as he imagines the plot unfolding in a book. He loves the knowledge in them, he loves the fact that he's holding something that will most likely be lost forever in a thousand years. He loves the painted characters and drawings and all the spirit poured into each page.

He loves the fact that a book doesn't judge him, unlike real people. A book doesn't sneer at his inexperience, unlike real people. A book doesn't try to exploit him, unlike real people.

Politics was a pain, a library was bliss.

He sighs, he wishes he could go back to a life where he could put on earphones and read a fanfic on her phone anytime she doesn't want to mingle. But politics waits for no one.

Back to work, he supposes.

* * *

One of the least favorite things of being a king is the whole propriety towards him. There is a thick wall of respect and praise that surrounds him, that keeps him isolated to other forms of casual interaction.

Set refrains from challenging as much, the priests don't call him a brat behind his back, the servants bow lower than necessary. It gets on his nerves, he doesn't want this.

When Mahad begins to treat him like that, like it's back to square one. He—

He does nothing.

He's so tired.

At least Mana didn't change.

* * *

They talk about marriage, about him getting a wife and an heir, and he ignores them. They insist it's important, and he ignores them. They try to introduce him to different women, and he tells them that he'll find a wife when he reaches seventeen. Then promptly ignores their protests.

Seventeen is a good number, it's a sure number. She didn't reach seventeen, and his canon self didn't either. That was the goal then. If he reached seventeen, he could worry about a possible future for him. Getting married, raising a kid, having a family. He could worry about that if he ensured that his kingdom survived.

He wouldn't subject a child to rule a kingdom of ruins.

He looks at Set, tilts his head, and thinks.

They were right about one thing, he needed someone to take his place in case he died prematurely. It didn't have to be his child, just family. How about his cousin? His cousin who nobody but a select few knew that they're actually related, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there. Or Set will anyways.

It was canon that he became the next king, so why not?

"Set," he calls out softly, the man is by his side in an instant, kneeling down. "There are a few tasks I wish for you to do."

He had his father teaching him how to be king, now it was his turn. At the very least, if he can't change anything, he's not going to let Set be king unprepared.

* * *

Clocks don't exist in this time.

But somehow, he hears the faint echo of mechanical gears ticking away.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Time is running out.

* * *

War is not nice, war is not pretty, and war is sure as hell not _glorious_. Whoever says that has never been to war, or is most likely extremely sadistic.

When his father dies, the neighboring countries took that as an opportunity to—what exactly? Invade, conquer, pillage? All of the above? He doesn't know. All he knows is that while he won't start a war, he sure as hell will end it. And if invaders come, he will squash them with his bare hands if he has to. And come they do.

So he grabs his blade, he joins the battles, he fights and summons his ka to screw things up for his enemies. There is blood and death and tears in all sides, and it's sickeningly familiar.

( _It takes one hit to kill her_ )

At the very least, he makes sure the warriors he kills die a quick death.

His ka sings, because that's what they do. They sing a song thrumming in his head and the song invigorates his companions, gives them a little more strength, a little more power, a little more determination. A song that is smooth like caramel, firm and loud, a song his ka belts out in a myriad of voices. The lyrics unknown to all but him and two other people.

"Ana," he murmurs, holding his side. "Switch."

They ask for a song, and he gives one. A song of metal and fire, of screaming and shrieking, a swirl of dissonance and rhythm. And they sing again, not for his allies, but for his enemies. A song that makes them a little scared, a little weaker, a little hesitant.

This is how battles are for him. His side full of burning will and the other barely having any. His ka is not a warrior, they are not a juggernaut like Set's or a trickster like Mahad's. They're not even something that can fully support, they do not heal like Isis' ka.

But they do a fine job in manipulating things (emotions, thoughts, and perhaps more, he is unsure) in droves. They sing songs that invoke emotions, depending on what song he thinks he needs. The tune, the beat, the words, when all of it is mixed with magic, seems to create numerous effects. Something that fascinates Mahad.

He wishes he was a musician in his past life, then he would be more useful to his ka.

"I don't think that's their true ability," Mahad muses one time, when he admits this regret to him. "It's your voice, their voice, that has magic. The song is just… a staff."

He doesn't understand.

"Your voice has always had a quality to it," Mahad says, smiling sadly. "If you talked more, made longer speeches, if you sang in front of people-"

"Not going to happen." Nope.

"Worth a try."

He finds out what Mahad means during peace talks. Many protest, but he ignores it. He doesn't want war, his soldiers are tired and wounded, and if their enemies don't want war then why discourage it? So he talks, and it goes in circles. The leaders are hot-blooded and stubborn, and they want to milk as much of an advantage as their battered pride can. But he tries either way.

Then at some point, every part of his being was just done. Here they were, squabbling like children. Over what? Him defending his kingdom, him fighting back when they attacked days after his father died, him willing to listen to their pleas? Why was he worried about this when there were more urgent things at hand? Like a possible evil demon god thing that could rise up and kill everyone? This was senseless, this was infuriating, this was-

"Stupid."

He looks up to find his ka, all four eyes looking at the council like they were dung. The men stiffen, looking at them warily. He admits that his ka is an intimidating sight. Three pairs of large wings, the shape and feathers similar to an eagle's. Six arms, all crossed, and in each palm was a mouth. One used to create sounds for a song, one that could imitate inhuman sounds. He does not know if his ka has actual legs, as the long flowy skirt they wear covers any clue about it. It seemed impolite to peek.

"This is stupid," they repeat, narrowing their eyes. "So I'm taking it away."

One man stands up, infuriated. He shouts at them, but no voice comes out.

He blinks.

The man blinks.

His ka looks smug. "Until you listen, you cannot speak," they say, tilting their head. "Your voices invoked stupidity, so I took it away."

He realizes that his ka sounds a lot like him, just louder. And older.

It's not the power over songs, like he assumed it was. It was the power over voices, like Mahad tried to understand.

"Well!" He claps his hands cheerfully. "I'd say shut up and listen, but I did it by myself," his eyes gleam. "Now you will all listen to my terms and my rules," he tilts his head and smiles. "Unless you'd like an encore of my wonderful voice?"

They all shiver.

* * *

Someone starts to leave notes on his bed every night, short sentences that demand him to do this and that. Beside each note was always a small plate of food.

The first note had said "Bandits raiding village in the south, fix it", and beside it was five slices of meat drizzled with sauce. He had inspected the food, checking for poison or traps, and found none. He had shrugged and ate the meal.

His ka had gently reminded him of his stupidity, he ignored them.

"Bandits, huh? They might be taking advantage of how the war depleted our soldiers," He had murmured, wiping the stray specks of sauce on his cheek. He'd send someone to investigate, and bring several soldiers and aid too.

The notes kept coming, with it were always snacks. Each different. Nuts, sliced fruit, candy, and sometimes even soup. He doesn't know why the mysterious writer kept on giving snacks, but he wasn't complaining. It wasn't poisoned, and he would never waste food.

He decides to write back, scribbling that he liked ta'amiya. If he was getting food, he might as well get his favorites.

He taps his finger, thinking of what else to write. He adds that he doesn't like batarekh or any alcoholic drink.

The next note tells him he's odd. He laughs, nibbling on one of the honey balls on the current plate of snacks he has. The next few lines make him freeze.

"Find out everything about Kul-Elna, your one eyed priest is hiding something."

He has a suspicion on who this was.

* * *

He doesn't know how to confront Akhenaden, he highly doubts he'll tell the truth if he does. He hid it from his father, he'd probably hide it from him.

He confronts Mahad though. He knows from the show that he told his father about the evil in the Items. So he asks if he knew, and he did.

"I'm not angry, just… sad you didn't tell me this of your own accord," he sighs. "I know I was a child, but I'm not anymore. And I'm king now," he says, looking at him. "I need to know these things, Mahad."

"I'm sorry." And his friend really does look like he feels horrible for not telling.

"I can't be coddled, not when it's about the safety of everyone."

"I know."

He nods, reaching up and pulls down the headdress. "Chin up, just don't do it again, okay? Don't keep things like this from me, not even if my father ordered you to, I know you're loyal-"

"Were, were loyal, it's ridiculous to be too loyal to a dead king," Mahad corrects softly. "You're right, I should have told you," he shakes his head. "You're my king, you're my prince."

He doesn't know what that last phrase meant, so he ignores it. "I want you to research about the Items," he orders. "How it was created, how it can be destroyed, how it can be purified from that evil presence. Anything about it, anything that can be considered as a countermeasure."

"Of course, my king," Mahad says. "Wouldn't Akhenaden be more suited to this? If I recall, he created the Items."

He purses his lips. "Akhenaden is good in alchemy, that's true. But you're the best in magic, and the Items are still magical items," he says. "And I trust you."

But not Akhenaden, is the silent message. One Mahad takes with grim realization.

"He created the Items."

"He did," he agrees. "And we know little to nothing about it beyond its powers, I wonder why? Wouldn't that be crucial knowledge to the wielders?"

He does know why, he even knows how and who, but it will take proof to convince anyone about what Akhenaden did, like Mahad. Even he has a hard time connecting the priest with the genocide of Kul-Elna.

Akhenaden is a man with principles, morals, and a strict sense of justice. Intimidating but kind. A man who played games with him as a child, who taught Set in his spare time, who gave Mahad tea when he was up all night creating some kind of magic formula again, who discusses medicinal herbs with Isis, who banters with Shimon endlessly, who pats Mana on the head just to make her giggle.

He now understands the sheer amount of disbelief canon Set had, the hurt and betrayal of the other high priests.

He needs to ease the knowledge bit by bit.

" _Brace yourselves,"_ he whispers sadly, watching Mahad leave. _"A storm is coming."_

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

* * *

"If you start courting someone, they will stop pestering you."

"I know."

Silence.

He doesn't get up, his body too relaxed and his mind too sleepy to summon the energy to. The sight above him is beautiful, too mesmerizing to get up. The stars, in all its glory, was a beautiful sight. It paled in comparison to the soft twinkles of light she had seen in the urban night sky.

He'd never get sick of it, looking at the stars. There weren't a myriad of artificial lights to pollute its glow.

"Why don't you?"

"There are more important things," he replies, thinking of the time he had to spend with his wife. The time he had to spend with his child. The time he had to spend dealing with the power plays of having a wife and child. There's also the fact that he'd probably need to try several times to have a child, as children tend not to survive long enough to reach three. He had been a miracle, the first and last child of his father. "And I already have an heir."

"Oh?"

He looks at Mahad, observes him take a sip of his juice, and says, "It's Set," Mahad chokes. "I considered you as well, but I know you hate politics."

Mahad spits out his juice in a beautiful spray.

"Y-you can't do that! We're not related to you!"

"I'm the king," he says, nodding to himself. "I totally can, and royal families had to start from somewhere, right?" Also, Set was related to him, but he shouldn't know that.

"We're both older than you," Mahad tries again. "An heir implies someone younger, someone who can outlive you."

Outlive him, that was the kicker, wasn't it? "It does."

Silence.

"My prince."

Ah, his old title. "It's only until I'm seventeen," he gives a smile. "Remember? I said I'll court someone when I'm seventeen."

"An heir is someone who should outlive you," Mahad murmurs. "My prince, is something wrong?"

He doesn't know. "It's just a feeling," he admits. _"Better safe than sorry, right?"_

Mahad looks shattered.

"Hey," he says softly, reaching out and holding his friend's hand. "Hey, no, this is a standard thing, okay? My father had Akhenaden and Shimon as standby leaders as well, if ever I was too young to take the throne."

"You're going out of your way to avoid getting a wife," Mahad says. "You've had this sense of urgency in you since last year, you work like you'll never have time to finish work in the future, you plan for this kingdom's future but not your own."

He's silent, his only reply is squeezing his friend's hand in assurance. "People die all the time," he says, looking away. "It's not—having Set as my heir, it's not because I'm dying," it's because he might die in the future.

Silence.

"Mahad," he murmurs. "I'll promise to try and reach seventeen, to have a family and all that," he looks at his friend. "As long as you promise me not to do anything stupid, perform forbidden rituals or something like that."

Mahad laughs, and if it sounds shaky, he ignores it. "I believe you're mistaking me for my apprentice."

A squeeze. _"Promise?"_ He whispers again in his past life's tongue. _"Please?"_

"… Yes, I promise."

"Good, that's—" he closes his eyes, focusing on the cool wind. "That's good."

He hears the clinks of his wind chimes echoing softly.

* * *

It officially starts with his father's sarcophagus thrown in front of him.

Everyone is silent, slowly looking at their king, expecting him to explode into a fire of rage. They wouldn't blame him, not when his father's body is in front of him in such a display of disrespect.

He doesn't, he's too focused on the man responsible for this.

"Akhenaden?" He whispers, and all his high priests hear the sorrow and hurt in his voice. His voice that is evoking heartbreak in every word, they don't think their own king is aware that he's using his ability. "Why?"

There was no thief king, in its place was a high priest. One that was looking at him with such hatred it shocks him. How did this happen? How did Akhenaden become so corrupt so soon? Why… why was he looking at him like that?

Akhenaden rants, but he ignores it. Looking at the broken sarcophagus and the mummy splayed for all the world to see. That was Akhenaden's brother, why would he do that? He was family, they were family… why would he do that?

He walks.

One step, two steps, three steps, four steps.

There is a battle raging around him. Kas summoned and fighting against Akhenaden's ka.

Five steps, six steps, seven steps, eight steps.

He ignores all of it, his vision focused on his father.

Nine steps.

It's started.

Ten steps.

He wasn't prepared.

"Urk!"

He pushes Akhenaden harshly, hard enough to send him rolling on the floor. He may have augmented his arm a bit, but he feels no guilt over it.

"I care little for your reasons," he says coldly, his voice making everyone shiver. He kneels down and gently carries his father's body. The atmosphere chills, and the abandoned goblets have frost creeping all over. "But realize that I am going to beat every inch of you for doing this."

Akhenaden snarls and orders his ka to attack him. His high priests yell in alarm, and he braces himself for the attack. Summoning his energy to create a shield.

It wasn't needed.

He finds himself coiled around something scaley, something white and warm. Shielding him from the attack.

"Get in line, highness," a voice drawls. "I got dibs first."

He's fifteen years old and the countdown starts.

* * *

Two things change, and he wonders if that's enough. He wonders if that's better, he wonders if that's worse.

"Thief King," he greets, using the moniker he used in the notes.

"Highness," the man greets back, a carbon copy of what Thief King Bakura looked in canon. Messy white hair, violet eyes, a scar on his face, his vibrant red coat. He throws a small satchel and he catches it.

He opens it. Inside are candied dates. He laughs.

The butterfly effect is an odd thing. He doesn't know what changed, but he feels he shouldn't regret it.

* * *

There's a note on his desk that says two short words, "I'm sorry".

It's not Bakura's, the handwriting is different, the _language_ is different.

He knows this handwriting.

His heart plummets.

* * *

Mahad is the first to die.

This isn't what he wanted, this isn't what he was planning for. Everything was following canon and he was not happy with it.

He stares blankly at the large stone tablet etched with a new spirit monster, a fusion of ka and ba. Mahad's ka and ba, the Dark Magician. He should comfort Mana, who is on her knees crying. He should gather people to open the temple, to… to…

"You promised," he whispers, clenching the Ring so tightly that the metal bruised. Bakura, clever and vindictive Bakura, had stolen it back. Akhenaden still only had the Eye. "You—you… _you fucking promised!"_

He wants to wail, to cry and sob and scream. But not here, not with his people around. They needed as much morale as possible.

They go back, he comforts Mana. Hugs her as she cries.

He goes to his room and cries alone, face on his headrest to muffle the noise, nobody is there to comfort him this time.

* * *

Set asks him a question.

"Did you know he was my father?"

He looks at him, his cousin looks like he's one second more to stabbing someone with his Rod. So Akhenaden met him today and tried to persuade him to his side. It seems it didn't work, as Set was here, demanding him answers. Akhenaden must have told him who knew the secret, in hopes of breaking Set's trust.

"Yes," he says simply. He doesn't say it's because of his past life, because of a show she once watched before. He tells what happened when he was a child. "Akhenaden and my father have very similar features, too much to be a coincidence. I know my father's face, and I often saw it in his," he looks up. "He often looked at you the same way my father looked at me, so I asked." He huffs. "He didn't answer."

"He didn't deny it either."

"No," he looks at Set again. "The first priests, they probably knew. Shimon probably knew, you can ask him abou—"

"My father died when I was a child," Set states simply. "I want nothing to do with this monster."

He bites his lip. "He loves you," he says.

"If he loves me then he should know I never wanted this," Set gestures at him, and he feels he should be insulted but he isn't. He didn't want this either. "I never wanted to take your place, I never wanted to lose more—" he hisses, clenching his fists. "—… Just when my life had some semblance of stability, death and pain come back again."

He wants to say sorry, but he knows it will anger Set more. "At least," he starts softly. "At least you gained a cousin out of all this?"

Set's lips twitch upwards.

He'd always known what Akhenaden had done, he'd always suspect what could happen in the future, he'd always known. But he was woefully unprepared, he was lazy, in denial, too scared to destroy the happiness in his second chance of life to plan ahead. To do anything useful.

He reaps what he sows, he just wishes it didn't affect the people he loves.

* * *

The thing about having an educated, experienced, and cunning high priest as an enemy, instead of an angry lower class thief like in canon, is that you're faced with a lot more shit to deal with. Akhenaden knew things, and he wasn't above exploiting them. Secret passageways, connections, spells, rituals, people, he knows the palace like the back of his hand.

That apparently included where all the good mummies are.

"Necromancy," he says blankly, looking at the army of undead crawling towards them. "I—it's—is this for real, _are you fucking with me here? This is utter bullshit!"_

Had he mentioned that Akhenaden was a high priest who is well-verse in branches of magic?

"Language," a voice chides.

"You," he points at the hovering magician, pointedly ignoring the ridiculous pointy swirly hat because it _was not cute, all-the-gods dammit._ "I am still mad at you for dying and leaving me a ' _lol sorry!'_ note, _so shut the fuck up."_ He had been shifting to English lately, mostly to swear without people realizing. He knows his priests suspect he was screaming profanity, probably because of his tone. And Mana laughing when she heard it.

"How unseemly," Mahad says, shooting a bolt of magic at an undead soldier behind him. "Whatever happened to the Ring? Akhenaden seems to have lost it."

"I gave it to a thief to spite you, _dickhead_ ," he replies, and also because Mana was still too inexperienced to be a high priest yet.

As if on cue, a group of mummies run past them, running away from a Bakura who was, and he wishes he was joking, shooting red lasers at them by using the pointers of the Ring. Because why not. Sure. Apparently you can do that. He thought that stupid episode with Pegasus and Yami Bakura was a joke.

"He's much better at using it than you," he comments, because Mahad had only used it for searching. Bakura uses it to detect and search as well, and also found some way to make it a weapon of destruction. The trigger happy thief.

* * *

He remembers that he could summon the Gods, that was one of the main skills his Pendant has. So he tries to do that, power like that could be incredibly useful against Akhenaden (and later Zorc). He didn't want to rely on Kisara so much, she was vulnerable when she summoned the Blue Eyes White Dragon, and he wants to prevent another canon death.

He recalls what the show said about how to summon them, that he needed to know their full names and titles to call them out.

"Okay," he says, determined. "Okay, that should be easy, I already know them."

Three angry bolts of holy lightning later, he concludes that he has to rescind his earlier statement. Perhaps the canon names were not the exact names of the gods. It was Japanese after all, and the English had translated Osiris to _Slifer_.

He looks at his singed cape with despair. "This was a gift," he mourns, and it was violet at that. These were hard to make.

This would take a while.

* * *

"That's impossible, even your father couldn't summon them!" Akhenaden gasps, gaping at the large dragon descending from the sky. "How did you find their full names?!"

He shrugs. "I lost my favorite cape." He was stuck with the red one now.

* * *

Despite his foreknowledge, despite the advantage of having the thief king by their side, despite his efforts at not screwing things up, it's not enough.

Akhenaden was a more terrifying starting opponent than Bakura.

He finds ways to keep him from summoning, he finds ways to get the Items—not above using the civilians as hostages to get him to yield. He knows him, was one of the people who took care of him, and he's not above poking and prodding his weaknesses.

They're losing and he knows, with resignation, that they'll have to resort to his last plan.

Follow canon.

* * *

"You're going to use it."

"Yes."

Mahad grips his staff. "We still have-"

"We don't, it's not worth the risks," he says, reading and memorizing his friend's notes. If there's one thing that was different, it was probably the seal he'll be using. The canon one didn't have his Mahad research in advance. This was foolproof, Zorc wouldn't return. Or at least, he'd be too weak to be a serious threat to the world. "It will work, don't worry."

"That's not why I'm worried and you know it!" Mahad growls, grabbing his shoulders and harshly turning him to face him. "My king, my prince, you'll die," he says, voice filled with anguish.

He smiles. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry," for making him create this seal. For giving him the guilt that he'll be the reason for his death. For not trying hard enough.

"You'll be sealed with it."

"It won't be forever," he murmurs, wiping away the tears. "Hey, it won't be forever."

"It might as well be," Mahad whispers. "I designed it so you could slowly absorb its energy until there was none left, and in theory it should work," he shakes his head. "But you won't take the strain, you'll be isolated for too long. Depraved as it is, it's still a god. Zorc overpowered all three gods, he has immense energy, it will take time to weaken it. Too much of it," He shudders, closing his eyes. "You'll be sealed with it for hundreds of years."

Thousands, he mentally corrects. Three thousand years maybe, if fate continued to be a funny bitch. "I know."

"Let me do it, my prince."

"You can't," he reminds him. "My family is considered descendants of the gods for a reason, you know how different my heka is. Your energy isn't compatible. It wouldn't work, you wouldn't be able to absorb it."

"Then Set-!"

"Doesn't have my voice," he says. "Doesn't have my training, he was not raised as royalty," he shakes his head. "There are things he doesn't know, things only privy to the king and his heirs. Things I didn't bother to teach because I didn't have time." And he wouldn't give any of his precious people this burden. Even if Mahad could do it, even if Set could do it. Heck, even if anyone could do, he would refuse.

He's lived two lives, it's fine.

It's fine.

"It's not forever," he insists, and he presses his hands against Mahad's cheeks to stop him from shaking his head. "Mahad, it's not forever. I'll be back, it will take time but I'll be back."

"How long will that be?"

"Who knows?" He did. "I don't want you to spend your life waiting. No, no, Mahad! Listen to me," he hisses. "Live because you've been reborn, live because we'll defeat Zorc, live **because your seal will save the world."**

"I don't want to."

Why were all his friends so needlessly stubborn?

"Then live for Mahu, because he doesn't need to lose his son twice. Live for Mana, because she deserves better. Live for Shada and Kalim, because their sacrifices shouldn't be in vain," he pulls him close. He whispers in English, soft and pleading. _"Live, okay? If not for them, then for me? Please?"_

A twitch. "I'll try."

"You'll promise."

"I've broken one promise before, my prince," Mahad chuckles bitterly. "I don't think you should trust me with any more."

"And I'll be breaking yours, so I guess we should try again," he says. "Promise me you'll live? You won't spend your life waiting for me? Travel the world, explore, do more research, do anything that interests you," he smiles. "But don't let your guilt and grief consume you, don't force yourself to be miserable out of duty. Do you think I'd want that?"

"… No."

"See?"

A huff.

"Then promise me not to keep… whatever this is from me," Mahad says. "You stopped planning for your future because you knew, didn't you? You knew something like this would happen?"

Silence.

"I—yes, I knew," he sighs, it's always hard to say no to Mahad (or Mana, for that matter). "It's… it's complicated."

"We have time."

"We don't, I don't," he says. "But you will, there are journals I hid. Ones written in cipher because you two know how to read the alphabet," he laughs. "It will explain what I know and why I know them, I hope… you won't hate me after."

"I would never."

"You don't know what I know, it's—I hate myself, honestly," he looks away. "I feel like a cheater, an imposter. I didn't try hard enough, you'll understand why. And I hope you'll forgive me."

"I feel like it's difficult for me to hate you," Mahad says. "You could stab me a thousand times and I would never hate you."

He hopes that will be the case. If not, well, he wouldn't really remember much when he's released, will he? He won't care. "Look for Kuriboh, he knows where they're hidden," he says. "The key to the cipher is," he tells him her full name.

* * *

At sixteen, she dies.

At sixteen, he dies too.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

He sings his last song.

Tick.

"With my name, I seal you in the Pendant!" He shouts. "I call my name-!"

Tock.

The clock stops.


End file.
